As I could think of no other diversion, I determined, as a last resort, to go to my room and spend the night in reading. To do so I had to go by Mr. Lister’s room, the door of which, for the first time when I had passed it, stood wide open. As I chanced to raise my eyes to the wall opposite the door, I stopped in sudden awe, as if confronted by the shrine of a Madonna. An exquisite oil portrait of a woman hung there, and I saw at a glance that it was the beautiful, imperious creature who had such a magic influence in controlling the men at the fire. There were the same large eyes looking upward from under a drift of gold-flecked chestnut hair. Her expression was that of eager, almost prophetic anticipation. A ravishing smile of hope and confidence was on her slightly parted lips, and the velvet curve of a resolute but womanly chin showed deep courage and devotion. This, then, was undoubtedly Mr. Lister’s prospective bride. If I could but hear the love story of this man and woman what a diversion it would be! I determined to fearlessly ask Mr. Lister to tell me his love story that night. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. My absorption had been so deep in gazing at the beautiful portrait that I had not observed that Mr. Lister had come up the stairs and was standing silently behind me. “Is she not beautiful?” he whispered. “Was she not magnificent at the fire?” “She was magnificent, she is beautiful,” I replied, deliberately turning and facing him. He was a man fair to look upon, and one that could not fail to be pleasing to a woman’s eye. He was slightly above the medium height. His well-knit and athletic frame was surmounted by a well-shaped, intellectual head, which was crowned with clustering brown hair. A strong, well-shaped nose, rather deep-set, introspective eyes, and a refined and sensitive mouth, made a countenance of more than usual interest. Just now it appeared somewhat wan and heavy from watching, but his was evidently one of those gifted natures that are subject to sudden, brilliant kindling, like the cheery flame which sometimes leaps from a smouldering fire. “Surely,” I thought, “this woman could not but have deeply loved this man. And yet she left him for the sake of woman.” As this thought passed through my mind, I unconsciously looked from my friend to the portrait, and back to him again. “What are you thinking of?” said Mr. Lister. “That portrait is Allegra Alliston. You saw her at the fire to-night. She was to have been married to me on Monday, if it had not been for the Woman’s Strike.” “I am thinking,” I said slowly, replying to his question, “that I cannot sleep, and that I would like above all things at this moment to hear the love story of Justin Lister and Allegra Alliston.” Mr. Lister, without seeming to hear what I said, took me by the arm and drew me into his room. He pressed me into an easy chair, and sinking down into a cosy window-seat opposite, he said, as if continuing what he had said before: